Years ago, after reading some particularly excrutiating poesy in a now-extinct online poetry site, I dashed off this (semi)tongue-in-cheek exhortation...
Ever poetic licensical be.
Say never "you"; rather, substitute "thee".
You'll sound so grand, honey, take it from me:
all shall salute thy creative esprit.
Ever poetic licensical be.
Join us poetic licensicals, dear.
Literal spoilsports shan't bother ye here.
Weave us some verses to draw forth a tear,
so doggoned lachrymose people will cheer.
Join us poetic licensicals, dear.
These are poetic licensical days.
Drama enfolds us in smothering ways.
Everyone's scrawling away in a daze,
lofty of spirit and purple of phrase.
These are poetic licensical days.
I love poetic licensical stuff.
Inverted sentences, words in the rough,
overwrought merciless saccharine fluff...
really, dear friends, I just can't get enough.
I love poetic licensical stuff.
Exactly! Let's explore Poetic License, Lannie, shan't we? Why Shakespeare is still popular, bards and bardesses, expel Satan, he who curdles milk and sours beer!
tossing my
ale hither,
an affirmation
of Truth made
upon untarnished
purity, "By My Trowth"
to swear by one's honesty,
stitching together attributes
of my victim and my perpetrator,
one in the same,
Elizabethan insult,
an ale-soused
apple john, By My Trowth,
Thy vile canker-blossom'd
countenance curdles milk
and sours beer, By My Trowth,
I place a pox upon thee,
thou dost make the millstone
seem as a feather what widst
thy lard-bloated footfall,
Here's the company,
the slavey, the drayer,
the brewer, the daughter,
the barrel, the half barrel,
gallon, the half gallon,
quart pot, pint pot, half a pint,
gill pot, half a gill, quarter gill,
nipperkin, and the brown bowl,
give me the
punchladle,
I'll fathom the
bowl, some say
that the firebrand
knows the use of
her cucumber. I
raise my silver tankard
and down it goes, brew
a bold cathartic batch, I
roasted brown barley,
no ale is its match
two weeks to ferment,
two more in the kegs!
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tossing my
ale hither,
an affirmation
of Truth made
upon untarnished
purity, "By My Trowth"
to swear by one's honesty,
stitching together attributes
of my victim and my perpetrator,
one in the same,
Elizabethan insult,
an ale-soused
apple john, By My Trowth,
Thy vile canker-blossom'd
countenance curdles milk
and sours beer, By My Trowth,
I place a pox upon thee,
thou dost make the millstone
seem as a feather what widst
thy lard-bloated footfall,
Here's the company,
the slavey, the drayer,
the brewer, the daughter,
the barrel, the half barrel,
gallon, the half gallon,
quart pot, pint pot, half a pint,
gill pot, half a gill, quarter gill,
nipperkin, and the brown bowl,
give me the
punchladle,
I'll fathom the
bowl, some say
that the firebrand
knows the use of
her cucumber. I
raise my silver tankard
and down it goes, brew
a bold cathartic batch, I
roasted brown barley,
no ale is its match
two weeks to ferment,
two more in the kegs!
Copyright Ms. Sage Sweetwater, firebrand lesbian novelist
Cheers,
Dan